Vague
by nogemhere
Summary: It all started with a group of chatty women. Or maybe with the absence of his sandwich, or blood dripping down a man's arm. With his knowledge upped, the challenge ups their game as well. His instructions, and the whole situation for that matter, were rather vague. He supposed it was to be expected.


It was a dark, misty night, the kind that seldom occur in real life and are usually reserved for shady deals and strange happennings. The same atmosphere was there, and it was punctuated by the crescent moon just barely peaking out of the clouds and allowing the empty field to be showered in darkness.

A man stood stock still in the middle of the open space, obscured by the fog at a distance and surrounded by the flowers that were as dismal as unlit Christmas lights that had been scattered across the ground and forgotten in the glory of the rest of the winter season. He seemed to be concentrating intensely on something laid out before him, but the object of his attention was not of any clear importance, certainly not enough to warrant this degree of focus.

What laid on the ground before him was a piece of parchment, covered in splotches of a dark liquid substance that was slowly _drip drip dripping_ down the stranger's arm, presumably blood.

After a long while of simply staring with the rather peculiar expression of someone who has almost nothing to lose and very little chance of any gain, the man's face became determined. Through his eyes, one could almost see his mind setting itself into place. This single look conveyed much about his personality, as well as the situation he was in.

This man was strong, but perhaps in need of a little hope. Whatever he was doing in this field was important, but mostly beneficial to him and those close to him. He was considerate, but this seemed to be a learned trait, not a naturally ocurring one.

He looked around, straining eyes to see if anyone else was near him. It was really of little use, there was very little light and a whole lot of vapor between him and whoever may have been watching,

He began to murmur very quietly under his breath. Almost as silent as his breathing, the words came out wispily, and anybody farther than 5 feet away from him would not be able to make out these sentence fragments. It seemed almost as if he was holding a conversation with someone in his mind, and some of it was just slipping out.

And then, as the words faded away into the night, a soft glow came from the paper, lying amongst the wildflowers and casting strange shadows throughout the field, cutting through the thick fog pressing in from all around. The light grew brighter and brighter, until there was an odd hum and it disappeared completely, blood and all.

The figure stood stock still in the middle of the open space. He remained that way until he left. Would there be any traces of his actions there tonight?

 **Linebreak**

The small park was bursting with activity. It was the first annual summer play-day for the children of Little Winging, and the green area, which admittedly was rather run down and not very well tended to considering the residents of the surrounding suburb, was speckled with bounce houses and other inflatables, and game stations had been set up with small prizes for any child who could complete one task or another. Harry was sure that the idea that they had won was the appeal of these.

The neighborhood's Women's or Mother's or other-such-word Association (or was it an organization?) had decided they needed to do something for the children of the community. Harry wondered whose bright idea it was. As far as he could tell, this organization was merely some sort of "inner circle" that told you who held the power in this suburb, and they were all, for the most part, more interested in gossiping about how who did what when and where than actually doing anything in the community. The whole concept of this group confused him. But then again, a lot of things did, so he didn't let this bother him too much. That is, he _didn't_ let it bother him too much, right up until he got dragged into it.

He supposed Mrs. Bloom was behind it. She enjoyed the gossiping much less than the others, and seemed to want to actually do things, which was an improvement – even if it was just for the sake of exercising her power and gaining attention from it. Harry could understand that. He'd met many a person like her, and could understand the appeal of using what you had to get somewhere even better, in order to have more. It was either greed, ambition, or a strange mix. Harry, despite all the thought he may have put into the subject before, wasn't actually very concerned with this.

To get to the point of all of his thinking, he believed it was Mrs. Bloom who he should be upset with. He was sure that there were other people in the group who liked to make things happen, maybe even a couple with truly good intentions, but, well, they were all in the group, and to remain there, they had to go along with the flow. These were women who cared about what others thought, who were living that old dream of being an insider, and if it meant simply observing others and playing along, so be it. That was the flow, sitting down for tea with the best china the host could dig out, in incredibly expensive outfits that were referred to with the words "This old thing?" whenever mentioned.

It was a dance that had been perfected a long, long time ago, and though it was preformed to different music now, it was still the same movements. Harry just didn't understand. But Mrs. Bloom did, which was why she could get away with making people do her bidding, because she knew how their minds worked. How they ticked with the dilemna, and the anxiety that if they said something against the idea, it would get out, and they would be marked as "against the children" and maybe even "not a proper lady". They had all certainly seen it happen before. And so, they were played like a well-tuned fiddle, and agreed with as much fake enthusiasm as they could muster in their bodies in the presence of their friends, and then went home and talked all about it to their of course perfectly well respected husbands about the event, because what if there was a barbecue and the men got to talking? Someone could find out that they were less than excited!

It seemed that their constant acting was the biggest source of unhappiness in their lives. At that moment however, sitting under the hot July sun, the biggest source of unhappiness for Harry was this play-day. More acurately, the fact he had "volunteered" to come along.

Now, don't get him wrong, his Aunt Petunia didn't like him any more than he liked her, that is to say, neither one of them were particularly fond of the other, so it was in no way out of willingness on her part. But of course, as a member of this strange, strange group, she was involved with all of the planning and organizing that occurred leading up to it. So of course, she was also head of some committee or another, and was also volunteering all of her time that day just to help run the thing. (This last thing really amused Harry when he first caught wind of it, after all, his aunt hated working with a passion, let alone spending all day outside with screaming children). To be fair, his aunt didn't hate children, she just merely tolerated them with the exception of her son Dudley, who she showered with affection (privately, Harry had to wonder just how much of that was an act). She didn't hate them. Well, unless the child in question was Harry Potter. He figured he always was the exception to the rule.

So, of course, he was also the exception to the rule that when you hate someone, or at the very least strongly disliked, you tend to stay away from them, and make various excuses to validate this to any of your peers, unless, of course, they strongly disliked that person too.

This made the situation doubly as odd, because his aunt's friends hadn't ever shown any emotion to him at all, except a vague sort of annoyance (Harry liked to think he just had that effect on people). The first explanation he had come up with was that they just wanted him as a labor force, and as this fit both their personalities and their agendas pretty well, he figured it must have been the correct conslusion. Further evidence was presented to this once they actually started to put him to work.

He supposed this, plus the unspoken judgement and pressure from her peers was what made her agree, After all, it would have only been too easy to make up an excuse, as humans tend to do when not wanting to speak up and just admit the truth (in this particular case, the truth was that his aunt felt as if he were the devil's spawn).

Harry was under no illusion as to what the neighbor's thought of him. Mostly because he's heard them whispering or mumbling about it, and also because as little as Harry had seen of Dudley that summer, he loved to taunt Harry about how everyone in the neighborhood thought him very strange, extremely abnormal, sunningly odd, and maybe a bit dangerous, unstable, with a dash of don't-let-your-children-near-him.

A large part of this was what the Dursley's had told them. He went to St Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys, according to his relatives. Another part was his history, an orphan dropped on a door step with a strange scar. And the final piece was his appearance. Ratty clothes, hand-me-downs, in fact, from his cousin, that slipped from his shoulders and hips and hung like a bag. Black hair that was wild, unruly. Eyes that were unnaturally green, and almost seemed to glow in the light, eerily, like the muggle concept of ectoplasm. All of these features combined with his clearly underweight frame, too pale skin, and dark bags under his eyed, screamed stay away.

So yes, her friends, that's what it must have been. _Good to know that peer pressure lasts long into adulthood,_ Harry thought sarcastically.

That's how he came to be sitting in an area of zero shade utop parched grass that was dying in the drought. Across the park, sprinkler's had been set up as a kind of special treat for the children, and most had gravitated that way, seeking relief from the almost unbearable heat. Harry didn't mind, not that it would matter if he did, because he had been told under no uncertain circumstances to stand by and man these little game stations, that had quickly been abandoned with the coming of the noon sun. He had been dragged aside by Aunt Petunia, who had whispered threateningly in his ear that if he was anything other than a perfect nephew who was almost mute, he would regret it, and would not be allowed food for at least a week.

As he sat next to the ring toss, he briefly wondered when he would get out of this place for the summer. His birthday was still two weeks away, but he was so done with the Dursleys. He was done with the mocking and the looks and everything in between. He remembered an incident about a week ago.

" _Boy, I've had it with your screaming all night," his uncle began over the breakfast table. He was a large, beefy man, who looked a bit like a walrus and had a reddish-tan complexion that somehow allowed him to change colors quite alarmingly. Now that Harry was older, he could quite appreciate this comedic value of his uncle getting angry or frustrated. This, however, was not a laughing matter._

 _Harry had had a nightmare the night before. When didn't he? After the graveyard... Cedric..._

 _His whole mind was somehow focussed on Voldemort. He was back, he was back. The events of the third task played over and over again behind his eyelids whenever his eyes closed. And those words, "Kill the spare," echoed in his mind at any opportunity, driving him near to insanity as images of Cedric's dead eyes popped up from his mind's torture box._

 _Despite all of the noise he was aware he had been making, he never thought his relatives would say anything. This was mostly due to the fact that they enjoyed ignoring his existence as much as possible, and over the years they had found this was the best way to co-exist with the wizard living in their house, by pretending he didn't exist for them to co-habituate with. It worked fairly well when there weren't any slip ups._

 _Harry nibbled on his lip, and the topic was for the most part dropped after his aunt's admonishment (mostly for her own sake). His uncle however did not take her too seriously, and spent most of that morning dropping hints and making snide comments. Harry was on edge all day, especially when he saw the malicious gleam in Vernon Dursley's small, dark, and beady eyes._

 _That night, as he got ready for another restless night in bed, his uncle came in. A rather ugly, satisfied smirk adorned his fat face. His lips were twisted in a cruel manner over his crooked teeth, and he almost looked more evil than Voldemort himself in that moment._

" _Boy, you can't continue keeping me up all night."_

" _Sorry, Uncle Vernon," Harry said nervously, wondering where this was going. He hadn't been this polite all summer, the lack of news and sleep had taken their toll on his manners, which had given in without much of an effort._

 _All of the sudden, his uncle was coming farther into the room. And then, there was a change of perspective on Harry's part. He was on his bed, tied in place with a gag in his mouth._ When did I get here? How? _He asked himself. He struggled for a bit, but could not break free, Strangely enough, he did not feel panicked at all. He felt quite relaxed actually._

 _He heard his uncle chuckle. "There. See if the boy wakes me up screaming tonight."_

 _Harry vaguely realized that the door was closed and he had been left alone in his room. He wondered more intently whether his uncle actually knew his name or not._

 _His bones felt weak and feeble. His muscles were slack, and his eyes began to droop closed._

 _He slipped into his subconscious._

The Dursley's hadn't awoken to his screams that night, but they had awoken to the sound of glass shattering all over the house. Apparently, without being able to use his voice as an outlet, he had used his magic. They never attempted that again. The post-incident punishment, however, told him all about who they thought was to blame for what happened.

Ever since that night, however, he had felt on edge. The feeling he had had... He was drugged, he must have been. But he still sometimes felt that way, that strange sensation, and it was getting annoying. He couldn't be under the influence of any muggle drug, even if his uncle had drugged him that night, he didn't eat enough to not notice something was off about his food, and most of it was consumed out of sight from him, and was prepared by his aunt.

That left the option of magic, but according to Dumbledore, this place was safe, and he couldn't have had it at Hogwarts, because surely someone would have noticed. This thinking sent strange shivers down his spine.

But then again, the adults at Hogwarts had not proven to be particularly helpful in any situation, and this ranged from flat-out no believing them, to knowing and not helping, along with cryptic messages and the supplying of a cloak to help him break the rules, as well as the fact that for every single year something managed to happen, though that could perhaps be attributed to Harry's presence at the school.

But still, not one adult figuring anything out, but children managing perfectly fine? I mean maybe third year, but first? How had Dumbledore not noticed he employed Voldemort? Alright, fine, maybe he didn't, Harry might be able to buy that, but why fly to the Ministry? Why not go by floo or portkey or other wizarding means that were much more efficient? It wasn't like this meeting wasn't supposed to happen or anything.

And then, Alastor Moody and Dumbledore must not have been very good friends if he couldn't tell the difference. Maybe they hadn't seen each other in a while? Maybe the death eater had been a really good actor?

Something felt wrong, and these thoughts racing through his head were muffled by the odd tingling sensation travelling slowly then all at once down his back.

He was pulled out of his mind by the call to lunch, which he was very grateful for. His aunt hadn't wanted him distrubing the meal, and so he had been told to pack a lunch before they had departed for the park. This way, he stayed well away from the picknicking crowds.

He picked up his lunch bag, which had been sitting by his feet. It felt strangely light, almost like it had nothing in it. He ignored this, and moved under the shade of the tree for his lunch break.

He opened his bag to find... it was empty. There was no food in it. _Had it been stolen?_ Impossible, he had been right by it for most of the morning, and when he had been transferred to the oh-so-important job of standing on the outskirts and doing absolutely nothing, it had definitely been there, a sandwich, a drink, and a clementine (probably the most he's taken from the kitchen at one time all summer).

He looked at the bag dibelievingly. He turned it upside down and shook it, as if a sandwich might fall out. Instead, out fluttered a note, gliding down and landing on the yellowy grass.

He picked it up.

 _Dear Harry,_

 _There is no good way to write this note. Whether I am blunt or I am mysterious, cool or edgy, sassy or sentimental, this whole thing is a giant cliché. Much like your life._

 _Which, in case you're wondering who I am, was also my life. I am you from the future. I'm 18 years old, by the way, almost 19. I'm writing this, because, quite simply, there was a war. And you can't just go back afterward, because you carry it with you. We are a whole generation with war in our souls._

 _I didn't notice the difference in myself. We have always been at war, Harry. We always will be. But they need not sacrifice themselves in this way._

 _I am you in the future Harry. In my future, however, because I sent this back to change yours. Our universes were the same, and then I split them off. Your universe might replace mine as the true one. Maybe this was always meant to be. Maybe this won't even work._

 _This is very tricky business, and I'm not going to begin explaining what was needed to send this note._

 _This war must not happen if you can prevent it. I am giving you a head start. You want to know what Voldemort's doing? Well, I can't tell you everything, details really should be kept at need to know, but I know me, so I know that what I need to know is different. It just is._

 _A potion should be coming back the night after you read this. Drink it. Another paper will appear with more information then._

 _I do not believe you will fail, but in case you do, I have safetly measures set up. Don't worry, I will be of no help to you in the coming years, but there are those who will. Look through them. You will learn what I mean in time._

 _Maybe we could meet in another realm sometime, with you having changed everything in your world. I would like that very much, to see a happier ending._

 _We do not know what's to come. Look through yourself in the mirror. You will see. You must._

 _With hope, faith, and the knowledge you can't believe,_

 _your future self_

 _Harry James Potter, age 18_

 _PS: By the way, our protronus is a stag, our godfather is Sirius Black, who is innocent, third year was the only one without Voldemort, and the Sorceror's Stone was hidden behind the mirror of Erised, in which we saw our family upon our first encounter. Also, sorry about the vagueness, I was only allowed to write so much. (That in itself is vague, sorry, I feel a bit like I'm setting you up for failure, but I believe you can do this)_

Harry stared at the paper.

His stomach rumbled.

 **AN: I'm writing again! Yay! Nothing better to do, to be honest.**

 **How do you like this so far? What do you think of the concept? I felt a bit like I was rambling half the time, to be honest.**

 **Thanks for reading! Please review, knowing your thoughts really helps me out!**


End file.
